Of witches and tattoos
by DeannaReadX
Summary: He was no virgin anymore; it was more the fact that it was her touching him. She repulsed him in every way. "Really though," she carried on, moving her face back a little and looking him straight in the eyes "this bone structure, the muscle all just right on the sinew, but you're still slightly too thin. Masculine, but elegant. And these tattoos," she said "you have new ones"


Before anyone asks, no, this is not a multi-chapter thing, its just a one shot and I'll only do a sequel if I get struck by some inspiration or something, sorry, I'm already writing two other full length things at the moment. But I hope you guys enjoy this because it helped me get rid of my writers block, and if there is one thing I love writing, its badass!stiles.

Read, and review, and as always, thank you.

Deexx

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There was a kid. A kid that hunters didn't talk about, that werewolves gave up trying to gain info on, that witches were superstitious about, that humans, though being unaware of his… demeanour, thought twice about getting on the wrong side of. There was a kid that everyone started off underestimating, and ended up on their backs sobbing and begging for mercy. There was a kid that was not invincible, and not particularly supernatural. But god help the stupid asshole uninformed enough to cross him.

Though, on occasion, this kid sort of forgot that he was supposed to be this almighty spark that was _supposed _to be this big time badass, and ended up tied to a chair in a warehouse with ropes cutting into his wrists that smelt like vervain with a hint of Agrimony herb- fucking great, Stiles hated that damn herb, it was the bane of his existence. He was cloudy, and his vision was- freaking ow! Any movement meant that the vervain burnt and sizzled against his skin even more. He was also pretty sure that at least four of his ribs were bruised, and one of them was broken along with a dull ache in his left leg that indicated whatever sedative he was given to knock him out for transportation, was actually numbing half of his pain still. He didn't want to think about how much it was going to hurt when he really woke up.

He tried, for a moment, to draw on that tug in his subconscious, the source of his normal badassery; but ended up stamping his good foot and cursing colourfully, realising that he'd been placed in a circle of Boneset. Most people thought it was used to ward off evil spirits, but Stiles had learned the hard way over the last four years that it could be used to block his powers. It wasn't strong, so its effects didn't hold up for long, but it was still a pain in his ass and to top it all off, he wasn't even sure his senses were up to performing any type of spell at all. Fucking witches and their stupid incessant need to eliminate 'threat'.

"You leave me in here too long sweetheart and your little plants are going to be worthless," he called out, coughing slightly and shuddering at the metallic taste in his mouth. He spat sideways and twitched his left eye trying to tend to an itch on his forehead. Okay so this wasn't an ideal situation, but it wasn't like he'd never been kidnapped; it was sort of a thing for him, getting abducted by people wanting to get to the pack, to his power, or just sadistic bumholes with weird kinks for young adult mages.

He couldn't pretend that he wasn't pissed at himself though, or that he wasn't a little bit panicked. It had been a year since he'd been in this situation and it was a little trickier compared to the twin leprechauns the pack had taken on the week before; and one other thing – he really fucking hated witches. Like really. They weren't the cute little school girls like Sabrina or BAMF female warriors like Hermione Granger. No, literally every witch he'd ever met had wanted to pull his heart out of his chest with no regard for ruining their perfect nail varnish. He had actually looked around, searched for some nice little hippy covens that braided each other's hair and worshipped trees and grass and shit, but there were none.

And from the heavy smell of peroxide in the air, and the faint sound of a vinyl playing Stevie Wonder, he already guessed that he'd fallen pray to Ursula's band of bitches. They had a particular thirst for his blood on their hands after he'd been forced to kill one of her sisters back in April just after he'd turned eighteen. It wasn't like he had wanted to do it, the girl had captured Scott and was torturing him for information. And if there was one thing people should have known not to do, it was hurt Stiles Stilinski's friend's, let alone a member of his pack. Even Derek had been livid.

"Patience love," the drone of her eerily soft English accent made him want to groan, the woman actually bored him with how incredibly clichéd she was sometimes. Seriously? Abandoned warehouse, creepy British witch with an aptitude for freakishly perfect manicures and the music of a black blind man. Not that he didn't totally dig a bit of Stevie Wonder of course, the man was a genius. Its just that he associated him with this coven and for that it kinda gave him the chills. He wanted to minimise his pain before the pack joined the party though, so he refrained from making a comment about her pointy black stilettoes being reminiscent of the colour of her heart, or a reference to how much she resembled the Queen in the TV show Once Upon a Time.

"Come on Urs," he huffed, pouting up at her "you know I'm not a very patient person. I have an attention deficit disorder you know-" he was cut off when her long thin hand collided with his face, the slap echoing around the room. He cracked his jaw, turning his head back to her and swallowing the beginnings of anger at the bottom of his stomach, plastering on his most obnoxious, patronising smile "that wasn't very nice Urs, maybe you should learn some manners," he spoke through gritted teeth, keeping the smile in place but narrowing his eyes up at her.

She hadn't ripped his clothes, but now he was becoming more aware, there was a warmth on the left side of his diaphragm and it was slightly wet and the traces of a very painful stinging soreness was niggling in the spot where he was guessing he had some sort of open wound. Fuck her; this was his favourite plaid shirt, and the t-shirt was Jasper Conran!

"Manners dearie?" she frowned at him like he was a toddler "manners are my middle name," she spoke with a sickeningly innocent tone and it was more Umbridge than Regina. She tilted her head to the side then, pupils dilating. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes when she shuffled forward to sit in his lap, legs open, one on either side of his hips. She ruffled his hair and half-smiled, her eyes full of hate.

"You grew out your hair darling," she nibbled on her bottom lip, again, clichéd-ly painted blood red to match her nails "it looks charming. Very grown up and manly. But we know, don't we? You and me, we know you're just a kid. In here," she placed the tip of her finger between his pectoral muscles and began to drag her nail down the middle over his shirt "begging to be understood"

That got to him. He didn't show it of course, smiling in sync with her, searching her eyes and face as she searched his like a predator admiring its prey. If there was one thing he despised, it was people calling him a child. He worked very hard to be taken seriously, to be considered as something more than a teenage boy with dead-mummy issues and a low attention span. It wasn't that he disliked that part of himself, it was that to his enemies, it made him weak, vulnerable. He decided then, that Ursula would not be walking out of this alive.

"Who's helping you this time then?" he distracted her, speaking in a quieter, attentive tone, not needing to raise his voice considering she was insisting on invading his personal space. She smirked again, quirking one eyebrow and licking her lips.

"That dearie, is none of your business, and we're not talking about me. I want to have a little catch up, I haven't seen you in so long," she wet her lips with her tongue and dragged her hand down further, pulling his tee up underneath the plaid shirt "I have always loved this body," she sighed, shaking her head softly, fingers splaying out over his ribs, pressing only gently "thin, almost translucent. Very intricate and lithe; with cheekbones like that-" she kept her hand where it was but leaned forward, brushing her lips along the line of his face, teeth lightly grazing his jaw "it would be disappointing if the rest of your body didn't live up to it," she breathed. He repressed a shudder.

He was no virgin anymore; it was more the fact that it was _her_ touching him. She repulsed him in every way, and it made him even angrier that it was common knowledge, if you wanted to have a chance of beating Ursula, you had to play her games.

"Really though," she carried on, moving her face back a little and looking him straight in the eyes "this bone structure, the muscle all just right on the sinew, but you're still slightly too thin. Masculine, but elegant. And these tattoos," she said, an expression close to transfixion on her face "you have new ones," she remarked, eyes dipping from his face, tracing the detail of the newly inked tree and roots he had depicted just around the back of his ribcage, the branches splaying off along a small part of his ribs, the others barking around the skin almost touching his spine. She half-laughed when she found the Triskelion; one much smaller than Derek's, just above the V of his hips in navy blue ink. The ones on his arms would be visible too, if they weren't tied behind his back; he had a line of symbols meant for protections, interlocking like vine in a spiral from his elbow down to his wrist. They were there as extra sources to draw energy from, runes in ancient codes. He knew what they meant, what they represented, because he had put them there himself.

Years back, the thought of tattoos would have made him urge; but now they were his favourite things on his body; he liked the way they worked stretched over his skin and bones.

Which was why he hated the way that Ursula was able to touch them right now, look at them. He was proud of them and the way they drew on him, but he didn't like that he was so open to her. He remembered then that he had a leather wrist wrap that looked like a simple male's bracelet, but was actually a rather powerful trinket he'd bargained out of Deaton. It didn't do much really, but it could regenerate strength, very slowly. Keeping his expression blank, and his eyes on Ursula, he tugged yet again on that part of his subconscious, and let a private swarm of relief wash over him when he felt the tiniest ounce of power activate the bracelet, automatically sending warmth to his fingertips and limbs. It would take some time, but he was secretly gaining the upper hand.

"I like them, they're very… Celtic. Very you. I've been wondering, have you stopped being a pussy and told that grumpy alpha how you feel yet? More importantly, has _he_ told you how _he_ feels?"

There it was again. He almost growled. He had too many weaknesses, too many things that he kept repressed. And that's why he hated Ursula; she could always see more about him than other people could, always read him. But she wasn't allowed to talk about Derek, that was a no no. Everybody knew not to start on Derek to Stiles, it wasn't an area he had patience in, and it wasn't something he tolerated. It made him struggle against his bonds, jaw tensing, eyes narrowing.

"Fuck you," he spat "you don't know shit"

She opened her mouth slightly then, both over-shaped eyebrows hitching up an inch as she drew back and stood back up to full height.

"Manners remember love," her voice returned to that soft, crisp tone and he struggled to get his breathing back under control, swallowing all the anger he could and using it to focus him. The blurry edges around his vision faded and he blinked a few times whilst she wasn't looking. He tried to think about the fact that his body was already rejuvenating itself. The pain was surfacing itself with a vengeance and he could really feel the blood against the skin of his abdomen now, and the dull ache in his leg was revealing itself as a sharp shooting pain, causing him to grit his teeth and ignore it as much as he could; not much longer now. The pack were on their way, and he'd be able to give her the comeuppance she deserved.

"Urs, I'm getting kind of bored," he said with all the solidarity he could force, he'd be damned if he let his voice shake in the slightest; he would give her no more satisfaction "can we move this along a little? I crushed your sister's skull because she pretty much broke every bone in my best friend's body trying to gain the daily report on me, now you want my internal organs on a platter. Am I right?" he pushed. The longer he kept her distracted, the further out of the danger zone he emerged, the more time he had to gather his resources, his spark.

Silently, he honed into the magic he had laid into the permanent ink on his chest, pulling the elemental energy from the triskelion, and the earth aura in the tree; pure life in its most concentrated form, and if this went the way he wanted it to, he'd be able to kick this bitch's ass with it.

He loved being ultimately human, even missed it sometimes; but his discovery of this, of his talents, this light inside of him that for once made him feel like he was meant for something _more_, he couldn't imagine where he'd be right now without it. Dead, probably. With half the pack driven mad with grief and a stupid hunger for a revenge that wouldn't make them any happier.

Poor pups, what would they do without him? Oh yeah, they had Derek, he was their alpha. A pretty damn good one actually, if he was admitting things to himself to pass the time. The guy had excelled to astronomic proportions; he actually smiled now, occasionally. It was still quite rare, but at least it happened, and at least he had something to live for. And Stiles was sort of the emissary, but not. He liked to call himself the pack sorcerer, it sounded way cooler. Besides, Deaton said he'd traced Stiles' lineage back to Merlin himself, so yeah, suck it Ursula, who'd had to sell her soul to hell for power.

And Stiles had met the guy that was running hell, and even if he tortured her now, there was no way he could cause her anymore pain than what she'd be faced with in hell with Crowley in charge. He wondered if Derek would call Dean and Sam for help to find him; Stiles wouldn't mind that, he kind of missed those guys, they never stuck around long enough. Although, there was that one time with Sam-

But Stiles was going off on a tangent, and Ursula was obviously getting impatient, his quip about her sister angering her more than his fury over the mention of his alpha. This was exactly where he wanted her, switched back into blood lust mode, looking at him like she wanted to peel the skin from his bones and make him eat it whilst she snapped every single one of them. It wasn't something he would put past her; witches could be just as cruel as demons, which of course, is what they were doomed to become, eventually.

"You think you're so special, don't you?" she hissed, eyes a little wider, although that same smile remained ever fixated on her lips "youngest warlock in a century, clever, strategic, pretty little twink; the shrouded one, they call you. They cower, some of them, at your name. Imbeceils," she pronounced every s as though it slithered off her tongue and whistled through her white teeth "you're just a scared little boy with a lucky gene. It's the oldest tale in the book; all this fear and the only way you win anything is through luck-"

"And I suppose you win through power, greatness, a proper genius, am I right?" he sighed, appearing bored again. He was still losing a lot of blood and his leg was hurting like a bitch; but he could feel it now, the simmering fire in his veins, growing carefully, softly, waiting to be utilised, released. This was what he loved; despite being tied down to a chair by a woman directing the fury of hell into mediocre magic, he was still the most powerful person in the room, and in a few minutes, the boneset would wear off and the circle would be broken.

"With sophistication dearie, and class. Not genius," she said, bending forwards and circling him slightly, one foot beside the other, heels making little noise on the concrete flooring "common sense"

He almost scoffed, but decided against it, swallowing again and letting out a ragged breath. He shifted his hands ever so slightly to check that his building power was counteracting the vervain on the ropes, and let his lip twitch in an almost smile. He closed his eyes for a moment, drowning out her taunting as she continued to speak, apparently convinced that he was trying to block her out because she was upsetting him, scaring him. Quite the opposite; he was concentrating on heightening his senses outside the room, honing them outwards past the whooshing of cars on the motorway, through the surrounding forest, calling on nature to guide him to what he wanted to know.

Then he heard it, running. The rustles of fast spacing feet across twigs and mud and shrubbery, the sound of fabric against skin and the low hint of soft growls accompanying laboured breaths from all directions, surrounding, circling the area, getting closer by the second. They would be here within minutes, as he'd planned. Distantly, he caught wind of a knife entering a chest cavity and an iron bullet being fired. Sam and Dean were helping then; eliminating the other witches standing protection whilst Ursula did her thing. It really wasn't working out well for her, Stiles would feel bad if he didn't know the bitch would slit his throat in a heartbeat; she was probably planning to.

Well, if there was one thing Stiles loved, it was thwarting the plans of the people plotting against him. He actually found it kind of funny, that everyone was so worked up about an eighteen year old. But then something in his chest flickered and something nudged his soul, and that was his cue.

He waited until Ursula had circled back to stand in front of him, and in a burst of power that sent a wave of heat outwards. The ropes around his wrists snapped and he stood up, Ursula being thrown back against the breast wall, cursing, trying with all her might to push back against the invisible bond he had holding her there hard and with extreme prejudice.

His eyes flickered dark pink before fully colouring out a dark purple and he blinked, drawing a deep breath in, feeling the thrum of pure power running through him, almost thanking him for allowing it to work, to move within its host again. He clenched and unclenched his fists, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. It stung like a bitch on the left side of his ribcage and yup, his leg was definitely fractured at the least; but it wasn't anything the doctors couldn't fix, and nothing he couldn't speed up the healing of.

Right now, he wanted to teach Ursula a lesson.

"Hey fucker," he said harshly, stepping forward "your coven touch my friends again, I will cut all your throats and jar the blood for alchemy, you hear me? You come after me again, _I'll _be the one peeling the skin of _your_ bones, and I'll listen to you scream the way your sister listened to Scott begging her to stop. At least I killed her fast and simple, her death was dignified, I didn't want to do it, but she looked me in the eye, and she told me that if I didn't, she would rip my life apart at the seams. It would have been interesting to see her try," he spoke, getting closer now, looking her straight in the eyes "but you threaten my pack, that's it, I'm not taking any chances. So I'm going to give you one chance _Ursula_," he spat her name "a choice. Leave, take what's left of your coven with you, and never come back, don't send anyone else, because I'll now about it," he moved so that his breath was fanning over her face "and I will kill every last one of you. So make the decision Ursula. Do you want to live, or die?" he asked, reinforcing the magic pressing her against the wall.

She looked at him for a few seconds, and for a fleeting moment, he felt relief that she would make the right decision and he wouldn't have to kill her. But then she tightened her jaw, swallowed tightly and looked him head on as the pack burst through the doors, halting on their feet, watching the scene unfurl before them. Stiles could feel his strength leaving him slowly, although he kept the magic firm and solid, breathing slightly laboured.

"I would rather die than let you live," she said softly, nothing but hate and defiance in her voice. He let out a breath of disappointment and genuine sadness before he brought a shaky hand up to her forehead, two fingers hovering over the skin of her brow.

"Then I'm very sorry," he simply said, pressing the fingers to her skin and watching her drop dead like a puppet who's strings had been scissored in one quick snip.

He let the force of the magic fall and dissipate, and his brain sort of malfunctioned, human needs catching up with him as the blood he was still losing became apparent, and he slumped to the floor. Several people rushed to catch him and Derek got there first, lifting him in a rather clichéd bridal carry whilst the others got to work sorting out Ursula's body. Erica and Boyd took care of that whilst Jackson and Isaac jumped through the windows and moved out to circle the perimeter again, protecting them whilst they got to safety. Scott ran beside Derek, Lydia and Allison flanking them with knives and arrows and before Stiles knew it, the black of night engulfed him and he finally allowed himself to pass out. His last thought was simple. His dad was going to flip shit when he saw the tattoos.


End file.
